I associate grapes with beautiful women in turbans and chandelier earrings who lie around on silk brocade sofas sipping Vermouth from a coupe. They also remind me of my Nana, Claire who used to peel her grapes before she ate them which I always found weird. I’m quite sure the Italians eat grapes on New Year’s Eve for good luck. As with all fruit, grapes have to be really plump and shiny, and likely covered in some fake wax coating, for me to find them enticing. I think I’d rather wear them as earrings.

It’s been a long time since I’ve swum. Even before the pandemic, I was edging away from the pool, substituting breaststroke for sun salutations. It was winter, and for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel like swimming. Correction –– I did feel like swimming, I just didn’t want to get wet. And cold. And covered in chlorine. I didn’t want to wrestle with my cap. I didn’t feel like getting to the pool to find nine people in my preferred lane. I didn’t feel like a mouthful of pool water every time a zero-etiquette swimmer splashed past me. I didn’t feel like dodging soggy plasters on my way to the showers. In the past, none of that bothered me. Well, it bothered me, but the joy of swimming was such that I was able to make a mends with it all. I have swum for five years, and swimming has buoyed me in a way that no other exercise ever has. I am eternally grateful to the pool, and to the beautiful people I’ve shared it with over these years. When the pool re-opens, I’m not sure how I’ll feel. Part of me can’t wait to experience those first few strokes, the last few, the weightlessness, the swoosh. And another part of me, (the one with a blocked ear and hairy legs) doesn’t want to go anywhere near a pool. We’ll see. In the meantime, I’m contemplating baths.

When all this began, one of the first things I stocked up on, before loo roll or hand sanitizer, was four boxes of clay. If we were to be confined to our home for an unforeseeable future I’d need clay. Clay to me is what flour is to my friend, Jessica, what plants are to my friend, Olivia. A Meditation. A conversation. A form of survival. My Mum, an emerging potter herself, had sleeves of paper clay delivered to her London flat hours before her studio closed. For weeks now, she’s sent me almost daily images of the weird and wonky bowls, platters and plates she makes at her kitchen table. In the first few days, I squished clay into our wooden dining room table with little to no idea of what to make. I’d roll it around, flatten it, beat it with a rolling pin. And then one day a small flower emerged from the table that paved the way for another flower, and another one after that. Two weeks later I had made fourteen flower vases. Ten days later there were 33. With each vase, the necks grew longer, and the shapes became weirder and more whimsical. I said to Michelle, the super talent who owns the studio I work out of, that we’re all looking to somehow distinguish our days so time doesn’t feel like a total blur. This series did that for me. A flower for every day, each one with its own distinctive personality. They all survived the first firing –– which I did not anticipate –– only the openings on some are so small that I’m not sure they’ll function as vases. Or anything, for that matter. But I plan on glazing and firing them, anyway. We’ve come so far.

Six weeks ago, my family stood at the shore of Lake Ontario and watched three adventurous souls brave the cold and swell of its waters. I found the experience exhilarating. I envied them a little, that in this time of quarantine, the wild and open water was theirs to surf. A few days later, we stood at the Humber River and watched three men casting their rods into the water in the hopes of catching a trout or two. I found this scene equally uplifting, but once again I envied their tranquility and freedom and connectedness to nature. We have since walked dozens of trails, disused train tracks, back alleys and secret woodlands in and around the city, and while it’s not the same as surfing a wave, or standing still in a river’s rush, walking has become our meditation, our freedom, our opportunity to connect with nature. Sometimes, we’re recovering from an argument, other times we’re avoiding the dishwasher; some walks are restorative, others energizing. Some walks are so tedious that we wonder why we ever left the house. And some walks, like the one we took along the sand dunes in Prince Edward County, fall into the archive of life moments we’ll never forget. Today, as we neared the end of our walk, I lay back on a blanket of dandelions and enjoyed the solidity of the soil beneath me. This is my surf. This is my catch.

For physically affectionate people, six-feet of distance can feel like a mile. I liken the experience to communicating in a second language. When I speak Greek –– my vocabulary is that of a nine-year-old-child –– I’m a paler version of myself. Humour and sentiment are much harder to express. Take hugs, kisses and all other physical gestures away and I feel equally limited. A gentle squeeze, a soft hand to the shoulder is what we do to convey support, love and gratitude in a way that words often can’t. It’s a super power that we’re without right now. So we hug the ones we can, often and with gusto, and send notes and plants and cake to the ones we can’t. A smile goes a really long way, and I’ve taken to waving at people with ridiculous vigor. Sometimes, I even clap my hands like an enthused toddler. Anything to make a connection, to express affection.